


The Bodyguard

by PhoenixSolo



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: ALL ABOARD THE ANGST TRAIN, F/M, Rating May Change, choo choo bitches, fast and loose with canon, probably not canon, redemption arc, tags will change, these two idiots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23719900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixSolo/pseuds/PhoenixSolo
Relationships: Boba Fett x OFC
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	1. Prologue

_I’ve got to get out of here!_

If she didn’t find a way out, who knew what would happen to her. 

The bounty hunters were right on her tail. She dodged left then right then down an alley—

—to a dead end. _Kriff!_

“She went this way!” She heard the victorious shout of the rabble of hunters when they realized they had her trapped. 

But not for long: at the end of the alley was a ladder to the roof of the cantina. She began to scale it—

—when her leg erupted into flames and her world turned black.


	2. Chapter 1

He stood over her still form. A quick scan revealed that she was still breathing; the stun beam had done its job. She’d have a minor concussion from hitting the ladder on the way down but nothing worse. 

“What did you _do_?” He muttered to himself. He crouched down to grab a handful of her roughspun tunic. An intricate gold necklace tumbled out of the pocket. “A thief, huh? Who would go through all this trouble for a common thief?” 

An indignant warble came from the end of the alleyway; Fett looked up to see four or five...well, “bounty hunter” was too strong a term for them. A Trandoshan, three humans, and a Rodian were assembled in a hodgepodge of armor, weapons and gear and the Rodian, clearly in charge, warble-sang at him. Fett’s helmet translated: “That’s OUR bounty!” 

Fett looked down to the unconscious woman at his feet. “Sure as hell looks like she’s mine.” 

“Step aside, Kung!” One of the humans hissed. “We’re taking her in and you can’t stop us!” Fett brushed off the insult; he’d been called worse by better beings. 

The “taking her in” part gave him pause, though. 

He used to be considered one of the best bounty hunters in the galaxy—and these whelps had no idea who he was. 

The perks of being “dead”: since the entire galaxy would swear up, down, left, right and sideways that he had died on Tattooine in the Sarlacc’s gut, _they had no idea who he was._

Which Fett will exploit to all ends. Frequently, he colored his armor; today it was reminiscent of his old color scheme. 

On the Rodian’s command, two humans and the Trandoshan charged him; he stepped over the unconscious woman and met them head on. He dispatched one human and the reptilian without use of his blaster, elbowing one in the stomach and punching the other in the nose. The second human screeched to a halt just out of arm’s reach—nearly tripping over his comrade—and reached for his blaster at his hip. 

Fett grabbed the man’s wrist and drew his own blaster, twisting the wrist out of the way and forcing his opponent to drop his weapon and sink with an agonized cry. He put the blaster to the man’s cheek and primed it, then rose his head up to face the Rodian. “You gonna risk your man’s life for a common thief?” 

“She’s no— _gurk_!!” The man on his knees fell silent with a gargle as the Rodian shot him in the back. 

“He isn’t my man,” the Rodian said smugly, lifting his smoking blaster. The only remaining human gave the Rodian a side eyed glance and stepped away, putting an arms length of distance between her and the green skinned nonhuman. 

Fett released the dead man at his feet. “...hard way it is, then.” 

The Rodian threw away the blaster and charged Fett. 

Clearly, he couldn’t put his credits where his...sucker was because Fett was able to sidestep and trip him up. As the Rodian fell, Fett grabbed the back of his collar and yanked him to his feet. 

The Rodian pulled a vibroblade from out of nowhere but didn’t get the chance to use it: as the blade appeared, sunlight flashing into Fett’s eyes through the visor, he snapped his assailant’s neck. The Rodian fell to the ground with a gurgle. 

Fett looked up to see the only being on their feet: the human female was aiming the blaster at his head. She pulled the trigger—

—nothing. 

Fett straightened up and moved towards her; she scrambled back in fright as he grabbed the blaster barrel. “You do know this is empty, right?” 

Her eyes went wide as Fett yanked the blaster from her grip. She put them up in a meek gesture of surrender, backing up slowly. 

“Oh no, you don’t.” Fett reached out and grabbed the collar of her shirt. She shrieked as he pulled her back. “Why all this trouble for a lowlife?” 

“S-she ain’t no lowlife, Mando—“ Fett could smell the fear in her: the smell of sweat and urine. 

A shifting sound alerted Fett and his captive to movement behind him; he released the thug and she took off running. Fett did not pursue her.

His other quarry was staggering off in the other direction. He caught up with her easily, placing a hand on her shoulder and dodged her clumsy swing, turning her to face him. 

Her demeanor was that of someone who’d been roused from a deep sleep and expected to move quickly. She wriggled, trying to escape his grasp, then lashed out with her fists and feet when she couldn’t break free. 

“Easy there, warp speed,” Fett said, not unkindly. She was thin, hungry and most likely only stealing to survive.

“Let go of me!” She slurred back. 

And then she just...slumped against him, as if someone had pressed an “off” switch on a droid.


	3. Chapter 3

Fett looped an arm under the semi conscious woman and guided her through the streets back to the ship formerly known as Slave 1, now known as Huttspit. He laid her on his bunk and stun cuffed her to the bed, resulting in a groggy kick to his armored groin; he tied her feet to the bed as well. 

She slept most of the trip through hyperdrive. 

Fett reviewed his information on her tracking fob again. Name: Ayara Dayne. Occupation: thief. 

Wait, this was all new from when he last viewed the infochip on the fob. Wanted on Dulathia for...treason? That was a new one—Sedition? Well, then— High crimes for a backwater such as this one. 

Someone was out for this girl’s blood. Punishment for such crimes on backwaters usually meant cessation of life functions, usually in a painful manner.

A low keen alerted Fett to his prize’s level of consciousness. He turned in time to see her rip the rope tying her legs to the bunk with a kick and a jerk. “Whoa, hey—“ 

“Let me GO, you piece of poodoo nerfherder—“ She followed the epithet up with more Huttese and Rodian insults. 

Fett was duly impressed. One, that she _knew_ such languages despite her podunk planet and two, that she knew such _language_. 

“I’ll stun you again if you don’t knock it off,” Fett threatened. She paused enough to regard him with a hateful look, then renewed her assault on the metal rung where the cuffs were attached. It bent and came detached from the bunk. Fett sighed—they always want to do it the hard way—and drew his blaster lazily. He glanced down to ensure it was set on stun then looked up—

—to catch a foot upside the right side of his helmet. He stumbled backwards, more out of surprise than injury. The bounty took complete advantage of that and ducked under his arm. Fett reached out and grabbed at her but missed. She stopped by the hatch on the deck, then knelt and put her hands on its latch. 

Fett, seeing her intention, aimed his blaster and shot a stun beam at her again; she saw it coming and dodged; the beam missed but it had done the job of backing her away from the hatch. “That’s a really bad idea—look out the porthole.” 

She let out a primal scream at seeing the bright lines of hyperdrive, then collapsed into a nearby chair with her head in her hands. 

“Throttle down now, princess,” Fett said what he hoped was a calm tone. “I’m not going to hurt you if you cooperate.” 

The woman froze when she heard the diminutive, then her demeanor changed entirely. She went from feral street tooka to courtly and distinguished in less time than it took for Fett to process it. 

She sat up with her still restrained hands folded in her lap, long, slim legs crossed at the ankles. Furious but controlled obsidian eyes glared out from a dark, smooth skinned face with high cheekbones. It was framed by shoulder length naturally kinked black hair. She was tall, though not as tall as he, and athletic. Fett was struck by how absolutely regal she looked, as if she hadn’t been scrounging for food on the streets and stealing jewelry to survive. 

“So you know who I am,” she queried in a clipped accent. 

Okay, I’ll play along. “Ayara Dayne of— _(kriffthinkfast)—_ house Dayne. Wanted on Dulathia for several high crimes, including sedition and treason. Bounty on you is pretty high on Rodia for thievery.” 

Dayne pinched the bridge of her nose and snorted in derision. “That’s what they want you to think.” 

“We will see soon enough, your highness,” Fett emphasized the title with sarcasm, causing Dayne to bristle. He found it necessary sometimes to acquiesce to...delusions of grandeur, especially if it made his job easier, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give someone a hard time about it. 

Dayne smiled demurely but said nothing else. 

“In any case, I’m gonna need the jewelry you’ve stolen back.” Fett held out his hand expectantly. 

Dayne shot him a positively malevolent look. “It’s mine.” 

“Stealing it doesn’t make it yours.” He wagged his fingers in an impatient ‘give it up’ motion. 

“It’s MINE. It was my mother’s.” Dayne attempted to fold her arms over her chest, forgetting momentarily of her bindings. 

“So why haven’t you sold it to eat or find a place to sleep?” 

Dayne’s face tightened up. “I’ll never do that.” She turned away and Fett let the matter of the necklace go for the moment.

Still, something seemed off about this whole thing. Fett couldn’t put his finger on it but the entire thing was just...weird. That feeling never went away. 

Not even when Fett announced himself and his bounty to air control. 

Not even when Fett was redirected to land at the palace proper. 

Not even when Fett dropped the ramp and was greeted by the king himself.

And not even when the tall, regal man greeted them with “Hello, daughter.”


	4. Chapter 3

Fett found himself escorted to a plain but comfortable waiting room, where he was bid to sit on a soft couch and offered a glass of hydro to drink. He let the cup sit and condense on the side table and looked around. 

Everything was threadbare and mean; Fett could see an outline against a wall where something—maybe a table?—had sat until recently. 

The steward wore a suit but it was patched at the elbows and knees. The shirt was clearly old but the product of someone who took dignity, if not appearance, seriously. 

Come to think of it, this steward, whom Fett guessed to be a geriatric given his wrinkles, rheumy eyes and snowy hair, was the only staff member he’d seen in the palace since he walked in. No guards, no musicians… it was the barest kingdom Fett had ever experienced.

Given the austerity in the realm, why in the hell would a king send a bounty hunter after his own child? 

Fett did not have time to ponder further: the steward stiffly motioned to him then escorted him to the throne room. 

The throne room was plain as far as throne rooms go but one knew exactly what it was as soon as they stepped foot in it. Fett stood there stoically, trying not to give in to the awkward silence. 

The king sat on his throne, tall and regal as kings are wont to do, yet this king had an aura of austerity about him. His crown was not golden, jeweled and opulent as Fett was used to, but a plain silver circlet. His robe was just that: a robe. Not a refresher robe, just a robe, like one would wear when smoking outside. Nothing besides the circlet to indicate his royal status. 

There were no other attendees save the elderly steward.

“Your highness,” Fett said as he inclined his head. 

“Hunter.” The king smiled. “I’m D’Jorah, rightful king of this planet.” 

There was an awkward silence, broken as the doors slammed open. 

“Father, you sent a _bounty hunter_ after me?!” Ayara raged as she stormed into the throne room. Outwardly, Fett gave no appearance of anything beyond cool and calm collectivity; inside, he was as angry as the princess. 

“We had to make sure you were safe, child. Much is riding on your shoulders.” 

“I’m aware of this, Father, but we do not have the m—“ Ayara flinched back as D’Jorah stood.

“All the more reason for you to stay. Put!” He thundered. “We’ve no more resources to keep sending after you on your wild escapades! This planet is counting on you and you were found—where?” 

“Tatooine, majesty,” the steward supplied. 

“—on Tatooine of all places, scrounging for food! You act like you don’t want to rule—“ 

“I DON’T!”

“—but we all do what we must to survive!” D’Jorah continued despite Ayara’s interjection. “You are my eldest daughter and you and your sister are my only surviving children! The throne and our line fall to you!” 

_“I DON'T WANT IT!”_ Ayara’s voice startled the king enough that he just...stopped. Nonplussed, Ayara continued. “Why is it impossible for me to cede the throne to Inuka?! She’d make a far better queen than I would anyways!” 

“She is...she…” D’Jorah sputtered, then put his palm to his face. “She is not the eldest surviving child, Ayara. When I die, everything falls to you and it’s time you learned your place.”

Ayara puffed up as if she was about to say something, then turned on her heel and exited the throne room—

—but not before giving Fett a look that could freeze magma.


	5. Chapter 5

Fett watched her go. She stalked out of the room and the doors closed behind her with a “click”. D’Jorah sank back into his throne. “I, ah, apologize for my daughter; she has her mother’s spirit.” 

“With due respect, your highness, why would you send a bounty hunter after a wayward princess?” The query was out of his mouth before Fett realized it. 

“The survival of our family, indeed our civilization, rises on her shoulders,” D’Jorah sighed. “My sons died in the war, drafted by the Empire and she and her sister are all we—I—have left.” 

“But that doesn’t answer why—“ Fett shut his mouth before he could get himself further into trouble. 

“She...is to be married.” 

_Classic_ , thought Fett. “...congratulations?” 

“This marriage will ensure our very survival. Part of her purchase will go to pay you, hunter.” 

As long as I get paid. “Very well, your highness. When should I expect payment?” 

D’Jorah stood. “In a galactic week, she is to meet her betrothed for the first time. Payment will be made in full then.” 

Fett narrowed his eyes under his helmet. “I’m afraid I cannot leave until I am paid, highness.” 

“And why is that?” D’Jorah crossed his arms over his chest. Tension built in the room and the steward shifted uneasily. 

“I am running out of fuel.” Fett said simply. “I can’t pay fuel prices right now; I need money to get off your planet.” 

“Ah,” the king nodded. “In that case, you may stay with us until the feast. Sena’t will show you to the guest quarters.”

———

The guest quarters were as sparse as the remainder of the castle. There was an old carved wooden bed set with beautiful but worn linens and hand woven comforter; matching side tables, wardrobe and dresser; hand sewn curtains and a plainly sculpted light source. The source was operated by motion and changed the brightness depending on how far away the movement was: the farther away the person, the brighter the light. A primitive but effective device, Fett decided. 

The bed was soft and the room smelled like it had not been recently cleaned. With no fuel and a payment not immediately forthcoming, a dusty room was the least of Fett’s worries. 

He set to dusting and sweeping the room as best he could with the worn vacuuming device, the broom and dustpan and the cleaning cloths he’d found in the closet. Droids must have been sold for money, he mused to himself. If they didn’t have money for the standard opulence of royalty, they didn’t have money for cleaning droids.

The vacuum was an ancient device, but programmable. Fett figured it out in a matter of minutes: put the short, fat cylinder on the floor, program it to vacuum for an hour and walk away. As the vacuum hummed to life and went about its business, Fett looked for the refresher room.

The refresher was an interesting device: in all his years of galactic travel, Fett had never seen indoor plumbing. It was either a typical refresher, where one’s waste was disintegrated or recycled into the propelling engines as with the Huttspit or it was behind a shrub in the middle of a forest or a rock in the desert. The indoor plumbing was a highly ineffective “in between”, Fett decided: it stank and clogged frequently. 

When Fett was done straightening the room, a knock at the door caught his attention. It was Sena’t, the elderly steward. “His highness requests your presence at dinner, sir hunter.” 

“I am unable to attend,” Fett said shortly. Public dinners present a problem when one wears a helmet that should not be removed. 

“I’m afraid his highness is quite insistent you attend, sir hunter,” Sena’t said in his gravelly elderly voice. 

About half an hour later, Boba Fett reluctantly arrived at the dining hall. The great space was poccupied by a single rectangular table. Had Fett the inclination, he could touch D’Jorah’s hand if both men stretched out their arms. 

It was only him and the king at the moment. “My daughters are getting ready for dinner; in the meantime, we shall discuss business.”

Suddenly on edge, Fett nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

“As you’re aware, my daughter has a… wayward spirit. I have her mother to thank for that.” D’Jorah lifted a glass, as if in toast to his wife. 

Come to think of it… “Your highness, this may be reaching but where is her majesty?” 

D’Jorah’s had trembled a bit as he brought down his glass. “She...she died, hunter.” 

“How—?” Fett was caught by the steward’s stern glance and a shake of his snowy head. “Ahem… business, your highness?”

“Ah yes, business. I am in need of a...bodyguard of sorts for Ayara.” D’Jorah took a healthy swig of what was in his glass and Fett suspected it was not water. “Inuka is a good girl: she stays put when I tell her to. Ayara? Not so much…” 

Further conversation was disrupted by the opening of the doors. D’Jorah sighed, as if in relief. “Ah, the girls are here.” 

The first in was a tiny woman: she came up to the middle of Fett’s breastplate. She had large, expressive brown eyes, a wide nose and a stern mouth. It made for an odd but not unattractive combination and Fett saw more of her father in her than the absent mother. She wore a gold dress that flowed past her ankles with a U neckline that was both conservative and revealing at the same time. She seemed quiet and reserved but Fett knew those were often synonymous with “keen and observant”. She was nearly bald, as if she’d been shaved and it was growing back. 

Her bearing as she strode forward was one of the royal lineage Fett knew she had. 

Ayara came in next and had Fett not been wearing his helmet, one would have seen his jaw drop. 

She was resplendent in a sleeveless dark red dress with a flowing skirt and a V shaped neckline that plunged to her navel, revealing a healthy swatch of dark brown skin on her chest. Her shoulder length kinky black hair was slicked to smoothness and gathered in a tight chignon at the nape of her neck and bound by a strand of gold colored ribbon. 

Ayara was taller than her sister by a head and a half and she could look Fett in the eye (or faceplate visor, in this case) without heels. She strode in after her younger sister but not with the same confidence. Her gait was… uneasy at best, like she wasn’t sure if she belonged there. 

Neither woman wore heavy jewelry or very much makeup; Inuka wore simple gold hoops that dangled to her jawline and Ayara sported simple gold studs. Fett found himself intrigued and followed Ayara with his eyes behind his mask as she sat down.

From out of nowhere came two more staff members and Fett realized that one, there actually were more castle staff and two, they were all elderly. Both women had Hoth white hair and threadbare serving clothes.

Fof her long fingered hands. “Now, I cannot keep calling you that. What should we call you?” 

Kriff! Generally, clients didn’t want to know the name of their contractors, so Fett was caught off guard. “Fett is fine.” 

Ayara tensed and Inuka’s eyes went wide. “As in Boba Fett?” The latter’s voice was incredulous. 

Well, it’s in the open now. “The same.” 

The room was quiet for around three heartbeats— until D’Jorah slammed his hand down and laughed from his belly. “Boba Fett?! No wonder you were caught with little trouble this time, daughter!!” He continued laughing as Ayara put her head in her hands and groaned. Turning back to Fett, D’Jorah’s laughter died to a mirthful chuckle. “You have my permission to explore the planet, Hunter Fett. You may use any vehicle in the castle at your leisure.”

“I heard he’d died almost ten years ago!” Fett heard Ayara whisper to Inuka. 

“You heard wrong,” Fett said simply. The look on Ayara’s face alone was worth the surprise. 

As he finished his sentence, the meal arrived. Fett wasn’t exactly sure but it was marine in nature and looked delicious; clearly the kitchen staff were in full employment. 

The helmet proved an issue though. He sat there and stared at his dish from behind his visor as D’Jorah prattled on about the historic value in the castle.

“You’re not eating, sir hunter,” Sena’t’s gentle whisper in his ear did not call attention to them. 

“Personal code.” 

“His highness will respect that; I will relay it to him that you would prefer to eat in private due to ancestral customs.” Before Fett could say anything, the steward traveled the eight or so feet to the king and whispered in his ear. His Highness looked startled, then nodded with a smile. 

“Sena’t informs me you’d prefer to take your meals in your room, Hunter Fett. I apologize for our rudeness; we were not aware.” 

“I thought we were to conduct business, highness, so I didn’t say anything.” Grateful to the steward for his notice of customs, Fett made a mental note to thank him later. 

“Ah, yes, back to business. I hope you do not find it rude of us to finish our meals while they are warm; cold q’innat is, frankly, inedible.” D’Jorah stuffed a utensil full of the fish into his mouth. “I will have some made fresh and sent to your quarters.” 

Fett’s plate was removed and he had the sneaking feeling that the contents would be distributed amongst the kitchen staff. 

“So, Hunter Fett, I have a proposition for you…” D’Jorah said pleasantly. His jovial demeanor was gone, replaced by that which one could call “calculating”. “You watch over Ayara until she is married and at the end of the week, I’ll double your pay.” 

_Straight to the marrow. I can’t turn anything down at this point…_ Truth was, Fett was broke. He had enough fuel to return Ayara to her planet and feed the both of them for the trip but that was it. Nothing else. Fett was strapped for cash. “I can do that, highness.” 

“Wonderful!” And the meal turned to a one sided conversation about farming techniques in the Southern Hemisphere of the planet.

An hour after the meal began, it was over. Fett walked back to his room to find a boy with umber skin pushing a tray with a covered dish and a bottle of white wine on it. True to his word, D’Jorah had sent a fresh meal for Fett. “From his majesty, sir hunter.” The boy bowed and scurried off, casting one last forlorn look at the meal on the tray. 

Fett logged the information for later and settled in his room to eat.


	6. Chapter 6

Because largely nobody knew he had survived the Sarlacc, Fett could not name drop and expect the fear and terror—and the consequently large bounty payments—in return. At most, he could expect jeers and half payments.

And honestly, he was fine with that. The fewer people that thought he was alive, the less times he’d have to kill someone that stiffed him. 

Contrary to what the galaxy believed, Boba Fett hated killing. It was a waste of ammunition and it complicated things. 

But it did not serve his pocketbook; he was broke more often than he wasn’t and that complicated things more than killing quarries. It forced Fett to not be picky about the bounty pucks he took and as such, forced him to take unnecessary risks that impacted his personal safety. 

Fett removed his helmet and sat on the bed using the cart as a table. The q’innat was light, flaky and grilled to perfection, tasting of citrus, some kind of butter and herbs. Fett was curious about the wine and gave it a sniff: it complemented the fish nicely but had been opened before. Previously opened drinks of any nature made him uneasy: reluctantly, he set it aside, electing to drink the potable water from the tap in the bathroom (scanned for impurities and poisons, of course). 

It was near nightfall when Fett finished his meal. He was unsure as to what exactly to do with it but knew he didn’t want it in his room because of the smell that was soon to occur with seafood.

So he washed his face, put his helmet on and pushed the cart towards what he hoped was the kitchen. 

It was not the way to the kitchen, as he would discover. 

As Fett pushed the cart down the hallway, he took in the architecture, decorations and furnishings. 

Or lack of decorations and furnishings: the only things decorating the hallway were paintings, pictures and holograms of rulers of the planet since ancient times. Behind the holograms, Fett spied ancestry trees.

All the curtains, all the furnishings, everything else was gone. 

At the end of the hallway, Fett saw a figure in front of a hologram. 

“...I’m scared, mother...I don’t want this…” Fett recognized Ayara’s voice. It was different: instead of being strong and fierce, it was quiet and trembling. “I don’t want to marry this man…”

The hologram did not respond. As Fett drew closer, he saw Ayara stiffen then turn to him. She was wearing the same dress from dinner but her hair was down, returned to its natural kinked and curled state. 

Fett thought it was prettier this way, more natural, but he’d sooner shoot himself in the foot than say something of that nature to her. 

Instead, he said: “Is she your mother?” It was a dumb question, he knew: Ayara had the woman in the hologram’s high cheekbones, wide nose and perceptive stare. If he’d seen Ayara smile, he’d see that she had her mother’s mirthful one as well. 

The hologram was blinking and wavering but neither cared. 

Ayara nodded, wiping a tear from her eye with the back of her hand. “She died before I had my first blood.” 

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say? 

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, hunter.” 

“You didn’t. I was just…” Fett motioned you the cart with his dishes on it. “...looking for the kitchen.” 

Ayara gave him a wan smile. “It’s in the other direction. I’ll take you there.”

“I would appreciate that—“ Fett started to say. He was cut off by the hologram’s flickering. It buzzed—then made a pop and fizzled out.

“Oh dear, Mother’s on the fritz,” Ayara said sardonically. She pulled a bag about half the size of Fett’s hand from under her skirt and opened it. Inside was a good assortment of well used tools, new fuses and resistors. Ayara knelt in front of the emitter and popped open the hatch. She broke out a driver and a resistor, fiddled with the internals for a few moments, then slammed the door shut. “It’ll take a few minutes. Father hates when I do this.” 

And the hologram flickered to life. 

Not for the first time, Fett was surprised. “That was…impressive.” 

Ayara shrugged. “It comes easy to me.” 

“Why does your father hate you working on things with your hands?” 

Ayara shrugged. “He’s an ‘old school’ king: he believes royal children should know nothing but privilege.”

“Which means?” 

Ayara put her hands on her hips and spread her feet shoulder width apart. “‘You are a princess, you need to act like one!’” She intoned, mimicking D’Jorah’s speech and syntax exactly. 

Fett snorted behind his visor. “And what does being a princess entail on this planet?” 

“Sitting around and doing nothing.” Ayara said with frustration. “I have to be diplomatic, graceful, act my age and all that bantha poodoo.” 

“Ah. Like most planets with royalty.” 

“I don’t even want to be a princess anymore. I’m not any good at it.” Ayara huffed. 

“You...are not wrong on that account,” Fett chuckled. 

Ayara turned her face to him and gave him an unreadable stare. “You don't disagree with me?” 

“No?” _Oh boy, here comes the trouble._

“Oh, thank the maker,” Ayara laughed with relief. “I hate suck ups.” 

_Dodged the blade on that one,_ Fett thought with more relief. 

“I’ll show you to the kitchen. It’s this way.” 

Fett motioned for Ayara to take the lead and she did. 

As they walked, Ayara pointed out her holographic ancestors. “That’s my grandfather, the father of my father. That’s my great grandmother…”

Fett waited until she had finished speaking to point out what he had seen. “So I see your father’s lineage; what about your mother?”

“Mother was a commoner,” Ayara replied. She then lowered her voice, as if sharing a salacious bit of gossip. “Father’s speeder broke down one day outside her shop and she got it up and running. He courted her for years, I heard.”

“Is that common?” Fett asked. 

“No. That’s why you don’t see Mother’s lineage: she has none, according to the courts. The nobles were furious.” 

Something clicked in Fett’s mind. “...when did they withdraw their support for the throne?” 

Ayara lowered her eyes. “Soon after my oldest brother was born. It was a massive scandal: first the king had spurned nobility, THEN he had the audacity to not only create one child with her, but FIVE children.” 

“I see.” This was valuable information. He waited for her to continue. 

When she did not, Fett asked the obvious question: “Is the planet one kingdom or multiple?” 

“Multiple. Father is delusional if he thinks the entire planet will all of a sudden back him because I marry into nobility.” 

“And every leader thinks he’s king.” 

“Exactly. I want none of it.” They were out of what Fett dubbed internally as the ancestral hall and currently in an empty corridor. 

“Too much drama.”

“And not enough money,” Ayara supplemented. “After the kingdom formally split, Father had to fund the economy from our own coffers.”

“Which was when?” 

“About 23 years ago, shortly after I was born.” 

So much on her shoulders and she’s a little less than half my age. “Well, then…” 

They continued in silence until the kitchens. They were found empty after a quick check and Ayara immediately went to a small cabinet up above and out of the way of the cooler. “My secret stash. The kitchen hands would have a field day.” 

The “stash” was merely a box of cookies. Ayara gleefully pulled it down and offered one to Fett, who politely declined, then stuffed a cookie into her own mouth. 

“You are Mandalorian?” She asked through a mouthful of crumbs. 

“No.”

“Yet you wear the armor.” 

Fett sighed. “My...uh, father was Mandalorian. He was raised in the ways of Mandalore but I never became a full fledged Mandalorian like he did. I wear the armor because it’s beskar and highly effective.” 

“So take off your helmet and eat with me!” 

Fett tensed up. “I… I can’t.”

“‘Can’t’ and ‘won’t’ are two different things.” Ayara ate another cookie. “These are good. Locally baked and sold because I don’t want to import anything. Costs too damn much. These are really good…” She offered another to Fett and he declined again. 

A clang alerted Fett to a presence in the kitchen; his hand went automatically to his blaster before the echo faded. 

It was the boy that had brought Fett his food; the boy was currently cowering behind a chair. 

He was skin and bones, Fett noticed. He holstered his blaster. 

Ayara looked at the kid, who shrank back. Boba heard a sound not unlike a growl and the kid folded his arms over his stomach. 

Ayara’s eyes widened. “Oh, Nedo, you poor boy. Have you eaten today? Has any of the staff eaten today?”

The boy shook his head at the first question but nodded at the second. “I was in the bathroom when the extra plate came in. They saved me a roll but Doris took it.” 

Boba didn’t even know Doris and he already disliked her. 

Ayara clicked her tongue. “That damn animal. Have you had a sandwich?” 

“No, milady…” Nedo looked hopeful. “The kitchens closed before I could get one. C-can I have one?” 

“Sure, I’ll make you one,” Ayara said with a smile. She held out her hand and Nedo took it. She led him into the kitchens with Fett following and sat the young boy on a stool. She gave him a glass of blue milk while she busied herself making him a wveilu nut spread and meiloorun jam sandwich. Nedo thanked Ayara and ate with a smile, both chatting about the day. 

Fett looked on silently, staying far enough away to not intrude on their moment. 

After finishing two more sandwiches and three cookies, Nedo yawned. “Sorry, milady, it’s late for me.” 

“That’s okay. Come, I’ll take you back to your room.” Ayara scooped the boy up; he promptly laid his head on her shoulder and wrapped his skinny arms around her neck. 

Doris, as it turns out, actually was an animal: a young Corellian slice hound with the spikes rounded. She came bounding up to Ayara as she carried Nedo to his room. Ayara gave the hound a playful finger wag, then set Nedo down on his bed. The boy was half asleep already and Ayara removed his shoes and tucked him in. The hound jumped up on the bed, circled twice and flopped down with her belly up for a scratch. 

Ayara left the light on in the hallway for him and Fett’s heart seized. 

They made their way to the great hall silently. Ayara seemed lost in her thoughts and Fett said nothing to encourage discussion. 

When they reached the base of the great staircase that led to the royal rooms, Fett stopped. “I think I can find my way from here, thank you.” 

She nodded. “Good night, sir hunter, I will see you tomorrow.”


	7. Chapter 6

He slept poorly that night, as he did every night since Jango’s death. 

After his shower the next morning, Boba stared at his face in the mirror. He traced calloused fingers over the acid scars on the left side of his head and neck. His night sky colored eyes roved over his dark caramel hued skin that sported the blemishes and scars that came with his experience. His cropped short black hair had only turned to gray where the scar met his hairline, but much earlier than his father’s hair. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Jango with signs of age beyond the smile lines and crow's feet. 

The acid scar ran down his neck and onto the left side of his chest then over his rib cage, ending just above his belt line. There was also a patch on that shoulder to complement the image of a scarred warrior. 

On his right bicep, a crudely tattooed sunnydew flower curled into a spiral. It was only an outline and poorly done by him in a moment of drunken grief. He followed it with his eyes, fighting the urge to drown his past in that bottle of wine. 

_What have I done with my life? What is my purpose?_

Years of “eat to survive” sustenance turned his body into hard durasteel; years of devoted physical activities had toned it. 

His thirst for vengeance and justice started early. Jango was a loving but very firm father: a tooka fur-gloved durasteel fist. Actions regarded by the older bounty hunter as acceptable were rewarded with a smile and very few words of praise; failures were punished with manual labor or, at worst, beatings and starvation. He both literally and metaphorically beat a sense of pride into Boba, one that was easy to break and hard to rebuild. 

When Jango was murdered by Mace Windu—for which Boba still had trouble forgiving the long-deceased Jedi—Fett was still young enough to want revenge and old enough to enact it. He’d thought he’d found mutual understanding in Aurra Sing and Bossk, but time and again, he was proven wrong. The final straw that broke the dewback’s back was when she abandoned him to Plo Koon and the prison. 

And then Neera… After he’d pulled himself out his grief induced depression, he had chained the sleeping female Hutt to her floating recliner, then arranged Neera on a daybed, her injuries cleaned and repaired. He’d lain sunnydew flowers on her protruding belly then pressed his forehead to hers in grief. 

Then he’d awakened the Hutt and set fire to her home. The flames had climbed high into the sky as Fett watched, listening to the Hutt scream and beg for her life. 

A noise in the bedroom interrupted his thoughts and set the hair on the back of his neck on end. He pulled on his ever present helmet (cleaned of filth and funk) and grabbed his blaster from its place on the sink. 

He creeped almost silently out of the bathroom with the towel wrapped around his waist. 

Ayara stood with her back to him, looking at his armor curiously. She was writing something on a piece of flimsi. Finished, she turned to leave

—and ended up facing him—

—and she shrieked a little—

—while Boba Fett hurriedly hid the blaster behind him—

—and dropped the towel, standing before her naked as the day he was brought out of the cloning tube except for his helmet. He whipped his hand—with the blaster in it—back around to cover up his nudity. It failed miserably. 

In the one and a half seconds before Ayara put her hands over her eyes, Fett noticed them widening as they traveled down his nude body. She quickly turned around to allow Fett to reach down and grab the towel. “—sorry!” 

“It’s custom to _knock_ on most worlds,” Fett responded dryly as he knotted the towel around his waist and grabbed his clothes. He ducked back into the bathroom. 

“I’m sorry, I thought you were—“ Ayara stopped and sighed. “I knocked but I didn’t get a response. I thought you may have stepped out, so I was writing a note—” 

Fett did not respond; he just pulled his helmet off so he could pull on his shirt. He pulled his helmet back on and left the bathroom. Ayara stood awkwardly while he pulled on his armor. “Say whatever it was that you need to say.” 

“...the suitor is coming early,” she said quietly. “The banquet is still the end of this week but he’s coming tomorrow to inspect his purchase,” she finished with a disgusted sneer. 

Fett said nothing. 

“Father wants me to dress nice and behave; he also wants to know if you have anything formal,” she pressed. 

“No.” 

“Okay, then,” Ayara turned to go. “He will have a tailor sent.” 

“Fine.” 

Ayara edged towards the door. “...later tonight.” 

“As he wishes.” 

“Andhesaidnohelmetsatthefeast!” With a slam of the door, Ayara left Fett to process what she had just said. 

———  
Fett sat—helmet and armor stubbornly on—at a table with D’Jorah, Inuka and a very reluctant Ayara. Both women wore practical clothes, as opposed to royal finery: pants, boots, loose shirts, no jewelry. Inuka had smoothed and bound her hair into a secure bun while Ayara had braided rows into hers. They hung like vines to her shoulders and swayed with every movement, something Fett found strangely sensual. 

“Alright, ladies and gentleman, we must go over what the plan is.” D’Jorah glanced between Inuka and Ayara. “Inuka—?” 

“Stay out of the way, in my room and don’t come out,” the younger woman responded in monotone, clearly annoyed with the instructions. 

D’Jorah nodded and turned to his older daughter. “Ayara—?” 

Ayara did not respond. She was staring intently at something on her hand, completely disinterested in the conversation. D’Jorah cleared his throat and she jumped. “Uh—try not to make a scene?” 

Fett successfully suppressed a snort behind his helmet. Clearly this had happened before: hence the warning. 

D’Jorah nodded. “Please, please try not to make a scene.” 

“I promise nothing, Father,” Ayara intoned. 

“Just...don’t embarrass me or your sister. Please?” D’Jorah begged. 

“It depends on the suitors you’ve chosen,” Ayara sniffed. 

D’Jorah’s jaw worked and his eyes flamed but he switched subjects. “Have you picked your presentation?” 

“I’m going to demonstrate my fighting skills,” Ayara replied with determination. 

Inuka smiled with amusement and D’Jorah put his head in his hands. “Anything but that—!” 

“If you’re going to force me to be queen, I need to at least prove what I excel in!” Ayara snapped. “What good am I to a kingdom if I can’t fight for it?”

“You’ll have armies to fight for you!” D’Jorah riposted.

“How can I lead them if I’ve never been on the battlefield?!” Ayara parried. 

“You won’t need to fight—!” D’Jorah started to say when Ayara interrupted with her coup de grâce. 

“How can I lead from behind? How can I expect my armies to defend my kingdom if I can’t lead them?” She cried out as she slammed her palm on the table. 

“She has a point, Father,” Inuka supplied helpfully or unhelpfully, depending on one’s perspective. “If she is to lead, why not allow her to show her skills as a leader of men?” 

D’Jorah sighed and sagged back. “Gods forgive me...why do I have such willful children?” 

The room was silent. Fett, silent during the entire confrontation, debated on exiting. Political and family squabbles were not his cup of bitter water but he was stuck. 

“...fine, fine.” D’Jorah stood abruptly. “You fight against six of the best warriors we have. Will that calm you down?” 

Ayara opened her mouth, a sassy comment on her tongue, when she startled and looked over at Inuka. Fett noticed the younger woman shake her head slightly and mouth ‘no’ towards her older sister. He silently pleaded for Ayara to recognize when to just shut her mouth. 

Ayara was either wise or experienced enough to take the hint. She said nothing and D’Jorah shook his head. “I admire your idealism but there are many who will not follow you into battle.” 

“Because I’m my mother’s daughter?” Ayara bit out.

“No, because you are a woman,” D’Jorah said as if explaining something obvious to a child. “Women don’t do things like that—“ 

Boba groaned inwardly as Ayara stood, knocking the chair back. “And women don’t rebuild speeders and lead countries, I suppose.” She turned and stalked out of the room. 

Fett stood to follow her when D’Jorah stopped him with a look. “Are you aware that none of the generals will train her because she is a woman?” 

“And is this where you offer me more money to train her?” 

“You’re very perceptive and generous for offering,” D’Jorah grinned. 

Gritting his teeth, Fett nodded. “Very well, highness.” He turned once again to leave. 

“Oh, and hunter?” D’Jorah’s voice caused him to turn his head back. The king’s eyes were fiery, but not with anger. 

They were fiery with _pride_.“Make sure she wins.”


	8. Chapter 7

Although he questioned his life choices daily, Fett was beginning to actually regret this particular one. 

But not for the reasons one would think. 

Ayara had shown up in the training yard at the appropriate time with the appropriate workout clothing and her braids hanging loose around her face.

She was an apt pupil, absorbing everything like a sponge and asking questions where needed. 

No, Fett regretted this decision because she was clearly toying with him in regards to her abilities. While he had his age and experience, she had the knowledge and aptitude of a warrior. 

As if she had been training in secret all along. 

After Fett wound up on his armored back for the third time (to her own three ‘losses’), he asked in frustration: “Where did you learn how to fight?!” 

She ducked her head bashfully. “I have a lot of free time.” 

Fett stood up, waving away her offered hand. “Well, then. I’m not sure why he asked me to train you.” 

“Father...doesn’t know.” Ayara replied, only somewhat ashamed. “He thinks I’ve been practicing my languages.” 

“Well, he’s not wrong in that account,” Fett said, ruefully recalling the invectives she had launched against him when they had first met. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ayara deadpanned. 

“So—“ Fett set himself up again. “Exactly how many fighting styles do you know?” 

“One.” 

Fett smiled gleefully to himself: that type of information was extremely useful. This round, he took his time instead of rushing in. 

Ayara, uncertain, danced closer while watching him. 

Fett feinted to his left; she didn’t fall for it, so he feinted to his right. She met him move for move. 

_She’s good…_ They were an even match for each other. 

But where she had stamina, he had experience. Fett feinted high and went low, sweeping her legs out from under her. She went down flailing. 

“Rule number one: never tell people what you know.” Fett crossed his arms over his chest as Ayara furiously got to her feet. 

She launched herself at him with rage in her dark eyes and Fett easily sidestepped and tripped her. “Rule number two: never attack when you’re emotional.” 

“Why, you—“ 

“Not that kind of emotional, princess,” Fett corrected. “Don’t attack when you’re angry or happy or anything other than calm and collected. Emotions can play havoc with your thoughts.”

Ayara’s eyes blazed as she lunged for him again. This time Fett met her head on, grabbing her wrist and locking it behind her back. 

She smelled of something exotic and spicy; Fett inhaled sharply, the scent finding its way into his helmet. Unbidden thoughts rushed into his head.

She took advantage of the distraction and brought her foot down on Fett’s instep. If he had not had his armored boots on, that would have hurt. Instead, he just pushed her forward. She whirled on him but did not attack while he shook his head. 

“Rule number three: use what you have, whatever you have.” Fett circled her, staring her up and down through his visor, assessing her physical strengths and weaknesses—and trying not to stare at anything else. 

She was definitely an attractive woman.

“We—were you a vulture in another life?!” Her irritated voice snapped him out of his thoughts. 

He cleared his throat, hoping his vocoder didn’t catch and amplify it. “You have assets—“

“Excuse me?” 

“PHYSICAL assets—“ _Just take me now, death._

“You’re not helping your case…” Ayara crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a steely stare. 

“Just work with me, please?” Fett groaned. “You have strong legs, good for kicking. You’re tall with long arms, meaning you have reach.” He circled closer. “You have advantages and disadvantages with your—um...body type. It’s just a matter of using them to help you win.” 

Ayara gave him a suspicious look. “You do realize I’ve knocked you down three times, right?” 

“And I’ve knocked you down three times as well. You want to make that three to zero. Could mean the difference between you winning or losing.” 

She narrowed her dark eyes and an unreadable expression crossed her face. 

That’s not good. Fett steeled himself for the inevitable attack—

—that didn’t come. Ayara danced around and in, feinting once in a while in a random direction. She was hunched forward, giving Fett a generous view of her cleavage through her workout top. 

She was lithe and graceful, sending all kinds of provocative images through his head. Her braids hung loose, framing her beautiful face. 

He almost missed her advancing. _Almost._

As she came in, Fett swung a fist laterally. Ayara ducked and rose up inside his range; he danced back to open up the distance. She grabbed his wrist and turned her body—

—and her hips rubbed up against his groin. Fett let out a hiss as Ayara drove an elbow into the part of his belly that was unarmored. 

He doubled over and she took advantage of his state to loop her ankle behind his and yank with her foot. He fell backwards to the floor—

—grabbing her wrist as he fell. He twisted his body and pinned her to the floor with his massive frame. 

She lay on the floor beneath him, breathing heavily, eyes wide. 

_They’re dark brown, not black…like good caf..._

“Can you...uh...you’re heavy—“ 

After a few seconds of silence and confusion, Fett realized what was happening. “Oh—“ He pushed up and off of her while she scrambled out from under him. 

She backed up to allow him to get up and did not meet his gaze. “I, uh, have to go—to...the refresher...“ She trailed off, ‘embarrassed’ not even coming close to covering what she was feeling.

“Yeah, me too.” He stepped to his right and she stepped to her left, both blocking each other. “Uh—“ 

“—sorry—“ 

Fett stepped aside to let her pass. “More training, uh, afterwards...” 

She only nodded, rattled into speechlessness; both fled opposite directions. 

———

Post break, Fett met Ayara in the training yard again. She seemed more refreshed and less wound up. 

“Now what do we work on?” She asked, Fett’s impropriety seemingly forgotten. She turned around to grab a long pole from the rack. 

While she was occupied, Fett...removed his helmet. 

Ayara turned back to him, pole in hands. “This is my favor— _oh._ ” Her eyes widened as she stared him in the face.

Fett smirked. “You’ve already seen the rest of me.” 

“What...are you doing?” She asked suspiciously. 

“Evening the field for our next lesson.” He undid the latches on his chest plate and put it by the helmet, then removed his pauldrons, greaves and other pieces of armor until he stood in socks, loose pants and A-shirt. “We’re going to work on your speed. First we start with the natural speed— _hey_!” 

Without looking away from his face, Ayara had stripped off her loose athletic shirt and pants, revealing a sports bra and tight shorts that covered her buttocks and legs to just above her knees. She continued to stare at him as she flipped the extra clothes away. 

_Okay then._ Fett blinked. “Um...ahem… so come at me.” It took him a conscious effort to click over to ‘warrior mode’ and He set himself up in a defensive stance. 

She did, aiming for his waist. 

Instead of stepping aside, Boba crouched and rose up, his shoulder meeting her midsection. He pushed up with his knees and Ayara flipped over his shoulder. 

Instead of falling onto her back, however, Ayara twisted and planted her hands on the floor, cartwheeling to her feet. Seeing his opportunity, Fett lashed out with a foot to the side of her knee. 

She saw it coming and danced away, knocking Fett’s leg away with a backhand. Fett’s momentum combined with Ayara’s deflection had his leg swinging out and his balance staggered. He fell under her high aimed kick onto his chest; she brought her heel down as he rolled away. 

Her heel missed its intended target and Fett rose to his feet, dodging another of her kicks, this one to his kidney. _She’s pretty fast already—_

As Ayara aimed a third kick at his ribs, Boba locked her foot under his arm. Taking advantage of his easy grip on her foot, Ayara twisted and kicked upwards with her free foot. It connected with his chin and Boba released her foot as he fell back. Both went down hard. 

Ayara sat up first and looked over towards Fett. “Kriff—are you—I’m sorry—why are you laughing?!” 

Fett stifled his laughter long enough to answer: “You have no form, no grace and no experience but you still managed to knock me on my shebs!” 

“Oh—you go to hell!” Ayara flung her sandal at Fett, missing by half a meter.

“That’s not a bad thing—!” Fett sat up, elbows on his knees, forearms hanging. “Form doesn’t always mean anything. Come here—“ He patted the ground next to him.

Ayara sat down beside him after grabbing hydro bottles. She gave one to Fett. 

“It doesn’t matter how you fight; what matters is how you win.” Fett said solemnly after a long swig of water. “You can memorize every fighting form ever created but it won’t always help.” 

Ayara nodded. “I see that.” 

“Lesson number four: form doesn’t matter in a fight; what matters is _winning_.” Fett let out a sigh. “If you’re ever in a position where you need to fight, you fight to win, to survive. Grace and form will come with practice and training.”

Ayara looked over at him. “They’ll expect me to keep to a certain form.” 

“And that’s where you don’t if you want to win. Form makes you predictable.” 

Both were silent for a handful of breaths, then Ayara looked down at Fett’s arm. 

“What’s this for?” Ayara traced her finger around the flower, not even touching Fett’s skin. 

Fett pulled his arm away. 

“What’s it for??” She insisted. 

“Not something I want to talk about.” 

“I’ll keep pestering you until you tell me,” Ayara teased. 

Fett rolled his eyes, but acquiesced. “...my daughter.”

“You have children?” The question was asked out of incredulous curiosity. 

“No.” 

“But you just said...” 

_Perceptive_ … “Nosiness in this field is neither warranted or appreciated,” he snapped. 

Ayara flinched. She stared at him for a few heartbeats, then looked away, shame burning in her eyes. 

Abruptly, he stood, then walked over to his armor and pulled the pieces on. He turned to Ayara as he pulled on his helmet. “Training is done for now.”


	9. CHAPTER 8

Fett stalked to his room and slammed the door closed. He ripped off his helmet and threw it across the room onto the bed. 

The question had thrown him off his game. 

_“You have children?”_ The last word reverberated in his brain like a stone tossed down a pipe. 

Boba Fett did indeed have a child, just not a living one. 

Boba put his face in his hands and snarled to himself. He’d been ready to die for Neera; he’d been so terrified yet thrilled when she told him about the baby. 

They’d kept it a secret for as long as they could: babies and families were a distraction in this field. 

And then to come back from a job and see her body on the floor, jagged line across her throat, arterial blood flowing from the wound. He still saw her face at night, eyes wide open with terror, begging, pleading with him to save them. Her hand reaching out to him as he watched her life’s blood drain from her body, the baby in her belly squirming in terror.

His feet had been frozen in terror and the only thing he could do was watch in horror as the woman carrying his child, his lover, bled to death before him, taking their child with her. 

The tattoo was the only thing left of them both that he had. 

Fett sat on the bed with his head in his hands. Ayara should not have pried, he reasoned to himself. 

_But she didn’t deserve what you said to her,_ his brain pointed out. _Your past is your own, not hers._

Fett groaned to himself. It wouldn’t do him any good to have his charge angry at him and it would probably make his job more difficult. His conscience was right: he would have to swallow his pride and apologize to Ayara. 

He stood, leaving his helmet on the bed but still wearing the armor, and walked to the door. 

He nearly tripped over the slice hound Doris as she whined at him. “What’s your problem?” 

Doris whined and glanced at the door at the end of the hallway. Boba had little to no experience with hounds, but everyone knew that look. “Do you have to go outside?” 

Doris yapped and pranced, then trotted down the hallway with Boba following. He reached the end of the hall and let her out; she sniffed for several minutes before squatting to relieve herself. Boba watched her bemusedly. “Where’s your boy, huh? Where’s Nedo?”

Doris ignored him and sniffed at the stone wall. 

She tensed up and sniffed with fervor, then gave a joyful bark and took off down the wall. Fett jogged after her and watched as she disappeared behind a bush, leaving only her wagging tail to be seen. 

And then Fett heard it: the sound of a child crying. He looked around the corner to see Nedo seated against the wall, head on arms, sniffling. “What’s up, kid?” 

“G’way.” 

“Not til you tell me what’s wrong,” Fett replied, falling back on an old half threat that Jango used. 

“Don’ wanna,” was the boy’s comeback. 

“Do you want me just to sit here with you, then?” 

Nedo shook his head; a split second later, he nodded. Boba sat silently next to the boy, his back against the wall. Doris put her head on Nedo’s shoulder. 

After a few moments, Nedo spoke. “The other kids won’t play with me.” 

“Why do you suppose that is?” 

“They said it’s because I have no parents,” Nedo sniffed. “Paulo said he didn’t want to catch orphanitis if he played with me and everyone started laughing.” 

Something about that comment rankled Fett. “Is it that big of a deal here?”

Nedo lifted his head and looked at Boba. “Family is everything here. My parents died in the war when I was four and neither had any brothers or sisters, so I became a ward of the kingdom.” 

“That can’t be all bad…” 

“It’s awful,” Nedo whispered. “Before King D’Jorah took me in as help, I lived on the streets and was starving. There’s no help here for orphans; if you don’t have family, you’re basically scum.” 

“You’re still skinny.” 

“I’ve gained seven whole kilos!” Nedo said proudly. 

“Well, that’s good then…” Boba Fett had been hungry before. He understood more than this kid would think. He didn’t understand why no one would take in a starving child, though: one of maybe a handful of Mandalorian customs that Jango had passed on to Fett was that the blood of the covenant was thicker than the waters of the womb—er, tube, in this case. 

But none of this excused being rude to someone. “They sound like nerfherders; you don’t need to play with someone who treats you like that.” 

“Will you play with me?” Nedo asked. 

Boba started. Nobody had ever asked him that. “Uh...sure. What do you want to play?” 

Nedo turned to face him. “What games do you know?” 

Boba didn’t exactly have what one would consider a normal childhood growing up. “Uh...why don’t you tell me your favorite?” 

Nedo’s eyes lit up. “I love borgleball! I want to be a borgleball player when I grow up.” 

Fett had only followed the sport because one of his marks was an athlete in the sport. He knew some of the rules and when the season began but that was it. He did know that it involved tackling of sorts… “As long as it’s touch and not tackle, sure.” 

Nedo jumped to his feet, causing Doris to yap excitedly. “I’m gonna go get my ball!” 

“I have to put my armor away,” Boba replied. “I’ll meet you by the door.” 

Truth be told, he was actually _excited_ to play with Nedo. Nobody growing up with him ever asked him to play with them. He placed his armor neatly on the chair, leaving himself in trousers and undershirt, and rushed back outside. 

Nedo awaited him with the borgleball in hand, Doris yapping by his side. He could barely contain himself as Fett approached, launching himself at the man with a joyful squeal. He collided with Fett’s side like a gnat against a bantha and bounced off. The borgleball popped out of his spindly arms and went airborne; Boba snatched it up and jogged away with it. 

Nedo and Doris gleefully gave chase. The boy turned out to be faster than he looked: he caught up to Fett and tackled his legs. Fett went down with an “oof” and managed to drop the borgleball. Nedo scooped it up and sprinted the opposite direction as Fett got to his feet and chased him. 

They played for hours until a few minutes before dinnertime. Dirty, disheveled and a little bloody, but feeling lighter and happier than he had in decades, Fett reluctantly called an end to the game. “It’s time to eat soon and we can’t go in looking like this.” 

Nedo gave him a disappointed look. “Play again tomorrow?” 

Surprised, Fett nodded. “Days are busy for me but I might have some time in the evening.” 

Nedo pumped his fist. “I tried to get the princesses to play with me but neither want to play borgleball. Princess Inuka tried to get me to play dejarik but I didn’t get it and Princess Ayara taught me to play sabaac but that gets boring with only two people.” 

Fett chuckled a little. “They’re definitely two different people.” 

“You want to play sabaac with me later?” 

Sabaac was definitely a game Fett could play. “Sure. After sundown though.” 

“I wanna see if Princess Ayara wants to play too!” 

“Play what?” Rare was the being that could get the drop on Boba Fett, but Ayara did just that. He turned around—

—and his jaw nearly dropped off his face. She stood barefoot in an ankle length dark blue dress with a plunging neckline, holding a pair of gold lace up sandals. Her hair was still in the braids but he suspected it wouldn’t be for long. 

“You look so pretty!” Thank the maker for honest children… 

“What’s the occasion?” Fett asked, hoping he sounded nonchalant. 

Ayara’s face clouded over. “They’re coming _tonight_.”


	10. Chapter 9

Boba Fett may not be a talkative man, but he was surprisingly articulate. The words that immediately came to Fett’s mind to describe this occasion was “pompous”. Several other words followed, among them “ostentatious”, “extravagant” and “opulent”. 

The visiting party was from the other side of the planet, a lesser known house (to Fett, anyways) but a far wealthier one. Everyone wore some kind of expensive clothing, everyone in the small party looked as if they were well fed (but still exercised) and everyone had some kind of ornament decorating their clothes. 

For their part, the home family looked drab and embarrassed for it. Fett was in his armor and helmet, able to observe without being observed. He stood behind Ayara’s right shoulder while she and King D’Jorah sat in their respective...chairs, as thrones would have been more decorated. 

Fett was no Force user but he could sense the embarrassment, tension and anger in the room—and that was just from Ayara. He’d had barely five minutes to bathe and change and meet the caravan as it pulled in. He hadn’t wanted to do so, politely suggesting that he remain in his room for propriety’s sake, but Ayara insisted. “You are my bodyguard.”

The wisdom of Ayara’s statement hit him suddenly: everyone knew the Dayne family had fallen on hard times. If all of a sudden, a bodyguard was shown guarding the betrothed princess, it would be a show of wealth. 

The visiting party was led by a swaggering peacock of a man, younger than Boba Fett but older than Ayara. He had eggshell hued skin, brown hair and wore a cream colored suit trimmed with gold and festooned with ribbons and medals artfully aligned on his chest. On his head was an ornate crown decorated with blue topaz gems and on his shoulders was, of all things, a gold cape trimmed with fur. 

“That’s prince Zumar,” Ayara whispered. She wore the dress he’d seen her in after playing with Nedo, the golden strap sandals and a plain gold circlet. Her hair was unbound from the braids and pulled into the same chignon he’d seen at dinner the first night. It was simple yet elegant. 

“What’s his story?” 

“His father and my father were friends until the schism. Zumar didn’t agree with either of them and cut ties when his father died,” Ayara whispered back. “They’re new blood.” 

“So how did the betrothal happen?” Fett made a mental note to ask what ‘new blood’ meant later. 

“Shh!” D’Jorah shushed them as the party approached the thrones. 

Prince Zumar, Fett decided, was arrogant and selfish—and he’d never heard the man speak. 

His perception was confirmed when he saw the richly dressed man sneer as he looked around the sparsely decorated room. 

D’Jorah stood up and spread out his arms, smiling warmly. “Welcome to our humble home!”

Boba’s mechanically enhanced hearing picked up “humble, indeed!” coming from the short, corpulent man leaning in towards Zumar.

D’Jorah continued. “Had we known you were coming early, we’d have decorated!” The wisecrack elicited half hearted laughter among the crowd. 

Zumar staged a bow. “Your highness, we just wished to see...how beautiful your daughter is in person!” 

Fett picked up on the hesitation; his experience taught him that this man was hiding something. He kept quiet so as to not create trouble and made a note to investigate later. 

“Tonight, we will enjoy each other’s company through—“ D’Jorah stumbled on his words. “— merrymaking! In a week, we will have our more formal gathering, including a banquet and the Viewing of the Bride!” 

Fett saw Ayara shudder. 

After a few fancy words and fake bows, the ersatz welcoming ceremony was over. As D’Jorah and Ayara stood, the visiting royal contingent bowed; D’Jorah left the room, followed by Ayara, who was in turn followed by Fett. 

Ayara stalked off to her room without a word to anyone. Fett caught D’Jorah’s eyes. 

Stay with her, he mouthed. Fett nodded; an angry Princess was more likely to run away than stay put in her room. 

He stood outside her room and counted silently to thirty. 

From one to about twelve, he heard her muttering about the unfairness of it all. 

From thirteen to twenty four, he heard several thumps and crashes, then silence. 

At twenty five, he heard the slamming of the wardrobe. 

At twenty nine, he heard the telltale sound of a window being opened… “Your highness?” He said, while opening the door. 

Ayara froze, eyes wide, a backpack over her shoulder and one leg out the window. Bemused, Fett shook his head. “Where are you going to go?” 

Ayara withdrew her leg and stood as obstinate as a stone wall. “I don’t know. I don’t care.” 

“Off planet?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Where?” 

“I DON’T KNOW!” Ayara yelled. 

Fett pretended to think it over. “Well, at the very least, I can escort you there.” 

Ayara startled, clearly not expecting Fett’s reply. 

Ten minutes later found them on speeder bikes flying away from the castle, going nowhere but away.

“So what’s so bad about being a princess and getting married?” Fett asked over the bike’s telecoms. He knew the answers already, but with Ayara saying them out loud, she could at least formulate a plan. 

“It’s not the idea of marriage, it’s him,” she answered back. “He’s arrogant, rude and has less brains than the Maker gave a rock.” 

_Heh._ “That’s all men, Princess: the Maker gave males two brains and only enough blood to run one at at a time.” 

Ayara bit back a chuckle, then grew serious as they turned a corner. “This man is always after money. Do you know how his family got their money?” 

“Enlighten me.” 

“Pull over, it’s a long story.” 

They did so at a meadow. Fett pulled two canteens from his pack and tossed Ayara the second one. “So…?” 

“Did you notice he wasn’t introduced with a family name?” Ayara asked before she took a swig of water.

“I did.” 

Ayara put down the canteen. “His family is newly royal.” 

“Let me guess: from the ground up?” Fett asked dryly. 

Ayara shook her head. “I’d be less scared of him if that were the case.”

A sense of foreboding came over Fett. “I’m listening.” 

Ayara took a deep breath. “These are just rumors and my father and sister don’t believe them but I do.” 

“Some rumors have a grain of truth to them.” 

“Zumar’s great grandfather was a cobbler that married a moderately wealthy older widow with a teenaged son.” She took a swig of her water. “The widow died young under mysterious circumstances and the son disappeared. Zunei ended up rich enough to be on the list of eligible bachelors and he remarried higher up the wealth chain.” 

“That’s not such a long story,” Fett teased. 

Ayara shuddered. “They had a boy—Zumar’s grandfather—and the wife? She… she died young as well. Speeder accident, it’s said. He skyrocketed up the ladder when he remarried a lesser princess. She—“

“Let me guess: died young.” Fett interrupted. 

Ayara nodded. 

“I sense a pattern.” 

“So do I,” she sighed. “I don’t want to marry him because I’m afraid I’ll end up like his mother, who allegedly died in childbirth, his grandmother and his great-grandmother.” 

“I see. Have you told your father?” 

“Yes. He doesn’t believe me.” Ayara responded bitterly. “He says I’m being paranoid.” 

They were silent for several minutes. Then a thought occurred to Fett. “What’s going to happen if they find you don’t have any more money?” 

“That thought had occurred to me. He’d still get the land that was supposed to come to me and my sister and he’d still get the prestige.” Ayara waved her hand over the meadow. “And I’d still be dead.” 

“What about those women’s families?” Fett asked. “Surely they’ve pressed charges.”

“The charges were suddenly dropped.” 

“I see…” Fett had been suspicious of Zumar to begin with but now he had an even bigger reason. “What if...what if you had some evidence? Proof that his forebears were responsible for those women’s deaths?” 

“I could throw it in my father's face and still be forced to marry Zumar,” Ayara responded bitterly. 

“What if...I find the proof and bring it to him?” 

Ayara looked over at Fett. “You’d do that for me?” 

He couldn’t explain why he was being so protective over this woman. “It’s my job as a bodyguard to protect you, right? I wouldn’t be doing my job if something happened to you.” 

“Thank you, hunter.” Ayara said with a small smile. “Let’s go back now.” 

“Change your mind about leaving?” 

“Someones got to stop him,” she said determinedly as she straddled her bike, gunned it and sped off. 

Fett grinned from behind his helmet and gave chase.


	11. Chapter 10

The party was over pretty much the instant it had begun so Fett and Ayara had not been missed—

—except by one person. 

_“WherehaveyouBEEN?!”_ Inuka hissed when she saw them in the hall. “No, wait, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know.” 

“Does Father know I was gone?” 

“No, but he’s been looking for you. I’ve told him you’re resting up for your showing.” Inuka glared vibroblades at Fett, who stared impassively back through his visor. 

Ayara gave her sister a hug. “Thank you.” 

After returning the hug and pulling back, Inuka stared at Ayara. “What were you doing out of the castle?” 

“Thinking,” Ayara responded. 

Inuka snorted. “Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.” 

“Inuka, you know my feelings on this whole marriage deal—“ 

“Oh, not this again…” 

“Inuka, _please_ listen to me—“ Ayara pleaded, grabbing her younger sister’s shoulders. “He feels... _wrong_. There’s something about him I can’t even tell anyone about because nobody would believe me but I seriously feel that my life is in danger here.” 

Inuka stared at her dubiously. “I know you don’t want this but to try and accuse someone of what you’re suggesting will be the downfall of them and us—“ 

Ayara sighed and released Inuka. “I didn’t think you’d believe me…” She turned to leave, walking a few steps away before balling her fists and turning. “If I end up dead, it will because of him. Please, at least promise me you’ll investigate.” 

Inuka startled, taken aback. “Ayara—“ 

“Promise me!” Ayara all but shouted. 

Inuka nodded shakily. “...yes, of course…” 

Ayara stormed away, tears in her eyes. Fett watched her go, flinching with Inuka at the slamming of her bedroom door. 

As he turned to go to his own chambers, Inuka spoke softly: “Do you think she’s right?” 

Fett sighed. “I’ve been at this game a long time, your highness. There’s a time to follow logic and a time to follow your gut.” 

“How do you know which one is right?” 

“You don’t.” 

Inuka gave him a contemplative look. “She’s adamant that he will hurt her. I’ve seen no evidence to that effect, though.” 

“That doesn’t always mean anything, Highness.” 

Inuka did not reply. 

“With your permission, your highness, I must retire and get some sleep before tomorrow.” Fett inclined his head, but the princess was lost in her own thoughts. 

She startled after he cleared his throat. “Oh, uh, you are dismissed. Thank you for your council.” Inuka left Fett to wonder exactly what council he had provided. 

———

He slept a troubled sleep for the remainder of the night, short as it was. Ill omens permeated his dreams and haunted his memories. Twice, he sat up in a cold sweat. 

As the morning approached, Fett grumbled to himself. Sleep was a precarious thing when one was worried. Annoyed, he flung aside the blankets and gave up on the futility of slumber and dressed for the day. 

He dressed to prepare for the task ahead: find something for Ayara to justify her fears. A flicker of protectiveness aroused inside him; Fett did not quash it this time. 

He put on his helmet as the sun peeked over the horizon. 

As he slowly pushed the door open, he nearly hit Nedo with it. “Hey, slow down there, what’s the rush?”

“Breakfast!” Nedo said without slowing down. Fett followed the boy at a distance; if breakfast was ready, all the guests would be at the dining area along with the residents.

Which gave Fett the opportunity he needed. 

Peeking into the dining room, Fett found that his hunch was right: Zumar and the portly man from the welcoming ceremony were not at breakfast. Inuka was, as well as D’Jorah and the steward Sena’t. Nobody was eating and there was an air of impatience. Fett found Ayara, who was bitterly staring at her cooling breakfast. 

“What’s going on?” He whispered.

“Can’t eat until the guests show up,” Ayara replied grumpily. Nobody else at the table paid her and him any attention. 

“Well, I’ll see about getting them.” 

“I’ll come with you,” Ayara said, starting to get up. 

Fett held up a hand to stop her. “No, your highness, you wait here,” he responded, emphasizing the ‘wait’. “You must entertain your guests.” _If they come down, distract them so I can work._

Ayara froze, then nodded, as if realizing what Fett was going to do. 

Fett started to leave, then bent back down to whisper in Ayara’s ear. “Make sure Nedo gets some breakfast.”

He left her there, staring grumpily at her plate. 

Fett walked towards the guest quarters, trying to keep his steps silent against the bare floor and realizing belatedly he had no idea which guest rooms were the occupied ones. 

As he went down the hallway, he heard the murmur of voices and ducked into the nearest room. 

A room bearing the crest of Zumar’s family. 

Not daring to question his luck, Fett quickly pulled several listening devices from a pouch on his armor. He stuck one under the bedside table, another under the window sill and a third under the cluttered side table by a large chair before he had to duck into the closet and close the door. 

“—bounty hunter could present a problem.” Fett heard the voice of the rotund man from the welcoming party speaking to Zumar. 

“I’m aware, Papa,” Zumar sniffed. “The sooner we have the wedding, the sooner plans fall into place.” Fett heard items being shuffled but he couldn’t see out of the closet without arousing suspicion. “Ah! Found it.” 

That’s not good… Fett fought the urge to burst out of the closet to confront them, reminding himself that he needed to know what exactly their plans were. 

“In the meantime, we must show up to breakfast or we will be missed.” 

Fett heard the door shut and two sets of footsteps leave. He counted to 30 then opened the door a crack. Nobody was in the room so he quickly moved towards the door. 

Something on the table caught his eye: a map. It was not on plasti but an ancient media. Fett quickly snapped a picture of it with his visor and exited the room. 

He was not challenged as he walked down the hallway towards the dining area. 

Everyone but him sat at the table, enjoying their meal. D’Jorah looked up with a smile. “Ah, hunter, we could not wait any longer to eat. Please, do join us!” Stomach growling, Boba slid into a seat next to Inuka and across from Ayara, who raised an eyebrow. Fett shrugged and she resumed eating. 

At that moment, Zumar and his father entered the room, electing to sit by Ayara. 

Fett felt a flare of jealousy as Zumar leaned into Ayara, who gave him a disgusted look behind his back when he turned to grab his glass. She sat rigid in her seat as D’Jorah stood and clinked his glass.

And his blood went cold as D’Jorah announced: “In two hours, we will have the Viewing of the Bride!”


End file.
